


found us on a faded luck

by silentinfluence



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Clubbing, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Canon, Running into Exes, me pulling up 4 years late to the YOI fandom with a starbucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:55:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28239564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentinfluence/pseuds/silentinfluence
Summary: “Please tell me you didn’t seriously consider cyber-bullying some dumb frat boy because he made me cry five years ago.”In hindsight, it probably hadn’t been the best thing to say. Viktor’s face darkens, eyes hardening into flint. Yuuri reaches out to pet Makkachin’s fur to give himself something to do before navigating this minefield.Alternatively: Viktor hates the fact that some people have treated Yuuri less than stellar. Yuuri tries to rein in his fiancé’s dramatics.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 21
Kudos: 313





	found us on a faded luck

Yuuri runs his tongue across his teeth. He feels absolutely nothing, which is how he knows he’s probably far too gone at this point. Still, it doesn’t stop him from clumsily bounding up from his seat, proudly declaring “I’ll go get us more drinks!”, and making it all of two steps before promptly tripping over his own feet.

A hand shoots out to steady him, Viktor’s pale fingers encircling his wrist. Even through the fog of alcohol Yuuri can feel his warmth like a furnace. He smiles down at him like a fool.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, sweetheart?”

He shouldn’t be able to hear him through the low pounding of bass and pulsating beats, but somehow, Yuuri does. Yuuri’s eyes find their way to the tiny triangle of exposed skin, silver as moonlight, where beads of sweat have begun to pool into the dip of Viktor’s collarbone. He’s itching to reach out and give it a taste, but the universe is wobbling a little too precariously right now for him to commit to anything that crucial.

Yuuri’s mouth slurs through what he hopes is an answer. Viktor casts him a doubtful look and moves to steer Yuuri back towards them, at least until Phichit waves a hand in the air to intercept.

“Just let him get the drinks, Viktor. Trust me. It’s easier this way.” Phichit heaves out a sigh of resigned amusement. He has obviously yet to recover from the memory of having to wrangle Yuuri home, blubbering and flushed, from one too many college parties.

Yuuri manages to flounder his way towards the bar, but not before bumping into someone halfway. The man grunts, lips pulled up into a scowl, before it abruptly freezes into a weird half-grimace at the sight of Yuuri.

“Whoops!” Yuuri giggles. The back of his blouse has turned tacky with sweat, and he scratches at where the sleeve billows out, feeling the lace catch beneath his fingernails. Phichit had leant it to him for the night -- a dreamy, feather-light wisp of a thing, nearly sheer all the way through, nothing but the crimson roses delicately embroidered into the lace offering him the illusion of modesty.

He’d immediately balked at the sight; Viktor, meanwhile, had walked into a wall, and had spent the next five minutes coaxing Yuuri out of the bathroom and running his hands through the fabric, whispering things under his breath in low, guttural Russian. It had sounded positively filthy. They’d nearly not made it out of the apartment; Yuuri’s stomach does a flip at the memory. Possibly, though, that could also be the tequila.

“ _Yuuri_?” the man says, eyes widening into saucers.

Yuuri squints. The man’s face is a foggy blob for a few seconds as he blinks the dryness out of his contact lenses. His brain eventually manages to rearrange his features into something distinctly human-like. “Uh,” he says helpfully.

The man laughs. “It’s me, Jason? We went to college together.”

Yuuri prods at his consciousness for a Jason. He finds it after a few seconds of swaying in the air like a piece of seaweed. He doesn’t particularly like what he finds. He has a vague recollection of sobbing in the dorm bathrooms over a boy who didn’t have the audacity to even give Yuuri a proper dumping. He suppresses another giggle at the thought. God, he’d been abysmally _pathetic_.

“Right!” he says enthusiastically. A woman with a pink, fruity drink passes by; Yuuri starts to think very deeply over what kind of drink he should get, and whether Viktor would appreciate a paper parasol in his cocktail or not.

Definitely a paper parasol.

“Wow, you, uh--” Jason runs his tongue over his bottom lip, which is looking very chapped, “you look great.”

“Mhm, thanks!” Yuuri makes a move to step towards the general direction (he hopes) of the bar, but is pushed back by the steady swell of the crowd. Jason steers him towards a corner of the room offering them a less likely chance of getting trampled to death.

“So are you based in New York now?”

Yuuri has to focus really hard on the shape Jason’s lips are making to figure out what language he’s speaking. “New York?” he repeats, frowning, before realizing that yes, they _were_ indeed in the city, beneath the flashing neon lights of some swanky Manhattan club. Just this afternoon Makkachin had nearly gotten into a stand-off with a street rat that could easily have passed for a well-fed, robust Chihuahua. Yuuri wrinkles his nose. “God, no! We’re just visiting.”

“Oh, same!” he grins, staring at Yuuri like that’s supposed to mean something.

Yuuri blinks back at him, terribly confused.

“Right, uh, I dunno if this is coming across as a little too forward, but I kinda lost all contact with you after we graduated, so maybe I could get your number and--”

Something very warm plasters itself all over Yuuri’s back. The material of his blouse doesn’t leave much room for resistance, rendering the connection nearly skin to skin. Yuuri shivers as the cool spice of Viktor’s cologne wafts over from behind, flooding his senses. Silver hair tickles at his chin. “Darling,” Viktor nips at his earlobe. Yuuri would gasp in shock if he weren’t so desperately, wretchedly _aroused_. His gut has now solidified into a heavy, molten mass of want, trickling through his entire bloodstream like molasses. “You’ve made a friend and didn’t bother to tell me.”

His words escape through a pout. Viktor’s eyes, however, - startlingly blue even beneath the dim lighting - are narrowed into sharp, assessing slants. He stares at Jason like he’s a soggy piece of sock. Yuuri tries not to burrow himself too obviously into the firm, enticing planes of Viktor’s chest. He fails in this endeavor.

“This is Jason,” he waves vaguely in his direction. “We went to college together!”

College seems like a lifetime ago. Yuuri, who had barely come out of it alive, who had been miserable half the time, never feeling good enough both on and off the rink. Jason, who had dated Yuuri for nearly five months, and had thought it fit to end the relationship by allowing himself to be caught hooking up with a stranger in a frat party. That had done wonders for Yuuri’s already fragile sense of self-worth, and it had taken an even longer time for him to realize (mostly through Phichit’s aggressive lecturing) that the problem laid entirely with Jason’s general ass-hattery and was not, as Yuuri had previously been convinced of, a product of his inability to be loved.

Viktor runs a soothing thumb down the back of Yuuri’s palm. His ring catches in the light, flashing golden beams into the night. Yuuri’s eyes chase after it hungrily, wanting to grasp at it and keep it in his pocket, tucked away forever. Instead, he laces their fingers together. A more tangible promise.

“Is that so?” Viktor whispers into Yuuri’s ear, cherry-liquor sweetened breath fanning out across his cheek. He eventually rests his chin on the junction between Yuuri’s neck and shoulder. Presses a kiss to the soft, milky stretch of skin, lips a scorching imprint through the barely-there material holding Yuuri’s blouse together.

Jason takes a visible step back. Viktor tries not to preen too much.

Yuuri’s brain whites out. The task of obtaining drinks is promptly exiled into some far-flung region of his mind, never to be seen again. He should be introducing them, probably, but Viktor doesn’t seem too keen on spending a second more breathing the same air as Jason, and Jason is already stuttering out an excuse, retreating into the crowd after a wide-eyed look at Viktor, still nestled into the jut of Yuuri’s shoulder like a territorial, lounging cat.

“Ah--I didn’t realize. I’ll just--” he gestures to the ether, and then is gone in one last whiff of body spray.

Yuuri performs a very ungraceful twirl within the circle of Viktor’s arms, coming to face him. A hand settles on his hip bone to ease his wobbling; Yuuri resists the urge to squirm. Every touch of Viktor’s felt like a livewire, still, even after all this time. His eyes rove through the unnatural glow of his hair beneath the lights, almost pearlescent, to the long sweep of his lashes, and down to the lazy curve of his lips, shiny with liquor. Yuuri wants, wants, wants. Always.

“Take me home,” he says quietly. He would relearn the taste of Viktor every night if he could.

Viktor, impossibly, pulls him in closer. “I thought you’d never ask.”

*

A loud crash echoes in their rented apartment.

It may have been the fruit bowl Viktor knocks over in his haste to pin Yuuri against the wall. Or the hallmark picture frame hanging inches beside Yuuri’s head, jostled by the force of his collision.

Whatever it is, Yuuri hopes the sound doesn’t wake Makka up. The thought doesn’t last very long, though, because what loosely-functioning shred of rationality left in him is promptly upended by the mark Viktor begins to suck into the hollow of his throat. Yuuri’s skin is throbbing and purpling by the time he pulls away, but it isn’t enough. He wants Viktor on every inch of his body, above him, beneath him, inside him.

“Bedroom,” Yuuri orders, tugging on Viktor’s arm. They shed clothes as they go, leaving a trail of expensive leather and shimmering satin in their wake. He moves to tug at his own blouse, yet Viktor cuts him off halfway.

“Keep it on,” he says.

Yuuri arches a brow. “This isn’t mine. Don’t ruin it, okay?”

Viktor suckles another mark into his collarbone, presses a warm, heavy thumb into the pulse point of his neck. Yuuri’s blood stutters in his ears. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you.”

He does.

Viktor makes careful work of opening Yuuri up; fingers, lips, and tongue simultaneously everywhere yet somehow never enough, always teasing just the right amount without tipping him over to the edge. Yuuri mewls against the sheets, fisting his hands in strands of silky-soft, silver hair, tugging. Viktor makes an appreciative sound from somewhere below him; Yuuri has lost all sense of time and space, only knows the rippling heat razing through his belly, and Viktor’s touch splitting him open from the inside.

“Want you,” he demands. “Please, I need-”

His words come out in near unintelligible babbles, mind foggy with alcohol and desire and adoration. He gets like this when he’s drunk, needy and loud and helpless, allows himself to ask so freely what he could never when sober, when the usual backdrop of anxiety would instead take root and take over.

“I’m here,” Viktor soothes. He sucks another mark into the flesh of Yuuri’s inner thigh, leaving a piece of himself everywhere as he traverses down the length of Yuuri’s body.

Yuuri isn’t sure how, or when, but he finds himself clambering on top of Viktor at some point in the night, thighs parted wide open, bracketing Viktor beneath him. He sinks down shakily, muscles burning, head tilted upwards and keening highly in his throat. Sweat has begun to gather at his temples, yet Yuuri can feel the cool air nipping at the skin of his exposed shoulder where the blouse has slipped off, hanging only halfway on his frame.

The black lace is startling against the swath of pale skin and the fragile dip of Yuuri’s collarbones. Moonlight streams in through the blinds, painting him silver.

Viktor blinks up at him, lips parted. “Look at you,” he whispers, eyes glassy. “My beautiful boy.”

Then Yuuri is shuddering, clenching hard around him, technicolor stars prickling behind his lids, and Viktor’s arms are coming up to clutch at him, settling at the dip of his hips, meeting him halfway.

*

“Hmph.” Yuuri says very eloquently into his pillow.

Viktor makes a similar sound from somewhere beside him, boneless and spent. He catches the lace of Yuuri’s sleeve between his thumb and forefinger, watching it with a mixture of marvel and suspended disbelief in his eyes.

“I forbid you from ever taking this off.”

Yuuri smells of sweat and sex and alcohol. The blouse, somehow, manages to smell even worse. “Phichit is going to kill me. I can never return this to him. We’ve tainted it.”

Viktor pouts a little when Yuuri shucks the fabric off and tosses it to the floor.

Yuuri arranges himself on Viktor’s chest, lids heavy and the promise of a massive migraine already churning up a storm at the base of his skull. His limbs still feel oddly loose and floaty, but he feels more settled now. Calm, less frantic.

“You caused a lot of trouble tonight.” Viktor’s amused voice cuts through the silence, rumbling past Yuuri’s cheek. He runs his fingers through the sweaty strands of Yuuri’s hair. “Could barely leave you alone for five minutes without someone attempting to steal you away.”

“Good,” Yuuri says. “Now you know how I feel on a daily basis.”

Viktor grumbles something unintelligible against the crown of Yuuri’s head. Yuuri thinks back to the Manhattan club; the way Viktor had draped himself all over Yuuri like it was the most natural thing in the world, the way Jason had gawked at them, shot-down and embarrassed. Yuuri huffs out a laugh, part of him already steeped in sleep, the other half still clinging onto the shape of the night, the feel of Viktor inside him.

“I can’t believe I ever cried over that guy. What a waste of tears,” Yuuri mumbles around a yawn, eyelids already shut. He shifts in bed for a more comfortable position, keeping Viktor and his heat close to him. “Should have only ever cried over you.”

Viktor is silent, rubbing at the golden band on Yuuri’s finger. He brings it up to his lips for a kiss. Then, later, when Yuuri has fully fallen past the precipice of sleep: “I’d rather you never cried over me ever again, darling.”

*

Yuuri stumbles into the kitchen in desperate search for an aspirin at noon the following day. He gives Makkachin her customary belly rub, before she eventually abandons him and trots over to curl by Viktor’s feet, who is furiously scrolling through his phone on the couch.

Yuuri gives it a few minutes of cautiously watching the back of Viktor’s unmoving head before he clears his throat. “Morning.”

Viktor responds with a vague, previously-unheard-of sound. His thumbs have yet to leave the screen of his phone. Yuuri sighs and plops his elbows over by the back of the couch. “Is this another pop emergency? Did your favorite Europop group disband?”

“Huh?” Viktor shoots him a puzzled look. “No. Everything is fine.”

“Mhm.” Yuuri can see the Instagram logo from his vantage point. He squints. The search bar is looking rather abused, and Viktor’s fingers fly over the keypad as he types out --

“Oh my god,” Yuuri groans. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Viktor sniffs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Have you seriously been sitting here looking for Jason’s Instagram? Why would you put yourself through that torture?”

“Of course I haven’t.” Viktor tosses his phone away and stretches out the crick in his neck. Even hungover he’s gorgeous; hair immaculate, skin a healthy flush, eyes clear and bright. Eyes that are looking decidedly very guilty.

“Please tell me you didn’t seriously consider cyber-bullying some dumb frat boy because he made me cry five years ago.”

In hindsight, it probably hadn’t been the best thing to say, but Yuuri has yet to fully regain optimum brain performance. Viktor’s face darkens, eyes hardening into flint. Yuuri reaches out to pet Makkachin’s fur to give himself something to do before navigating this minefield.

“I just hate that there are people out there who’ve treated you like that,” Viktor eventually murmurs. Yuuri does not ask how he knows, because Viktor is friends with Phichit, and Phichit has never passed up an opportunity to divulge any and every shameful thing Yuuri has gone through in Detroit.

He should be pissed, probably. But he remembers the mess they’d made of Phichit’s shirt last night, and makes the executive decision to let this one slide.

“Vitya. It was five years ago. I’m hardly torn up about it. And you cannot go launching an online vendetta against each and every person that’s made me feel like shit. You would have a small city at your hands if you did.” Yuuri runs the tip of his finger along Viktor’s cheek, watching the way his eyes involuntarily flutter shut. Sometimes Yuuri forgets that this Viktor, raw and unpolished and sporting a crease-mark on his temple, is reserved for him alone. The broadcast cameras and rink-side audiences don’t get to claim this side of him. A smile tugs on Yuuri’s face, a child-like giddiness suddenly surging within him at the thought.

Viktor pouts, steals a quick kiss from the flat of Yuuri’s palm. Then he’s silent, face softening into that pensive look he often subconsciously adopts, and Yuuri waits for him to sort out his thoughts into something tangible. Viktor sighs. “I wish I’d known you in college. We could have eloped to the countryside much sooner.”

Yuuri snorts. “Absolutely not. I had terrible acne and was constantly two seconds away from a nervous breakdown. I would have done everything in my power to make sure I was as far away from you as possible.”

What he doesn’t say: _you wouldn’t have spared me a single glance in college_. Then, a second, more sinister thought: _you were too good for me then, and you certainly still are now_.

Yuuri tries to chase that voice away. Disabusing himself of that notion has never been a singular, linear process, though, and it stuck around in the darkest crevices of his mind on certain days, like a bruise that always lingered, never quite fading at the edges.

(Viktor helps, even when he doesn’t know it. When he comes up behind Yuuri, who is brushing his teeth in front of the bathroom mirror, still bleary-eyed from sleep, foam dripping at the corner of his mouth, and stops in his tracks, staring at Yuuri so openly like he’s the best thing since sliced bread. He still doesn’t completely get why. Maybe someday he will.)

Viktor harrumphs. “Your mother has shown me photos. You were adorable. I would have ravished you in the library.”

Yuuri covers Viktor’s mouth with his hand, who then proceeds to lick a thick stripe across his palm in revenge. Yuuri yelps. They tumble against the couch in a pile of long limbs, Makkachin’s yipping a constant thrum in the background.

It surprises Yuuri sometimes, the fierceness in which he thinks he has never wanted anything more than this.

*

Later: “I’m grateful I met you when I met you. I’m happy now. You don’t doubt that, do you?”

Viktor smiles, laces their fingers together. He does not let go for a long, long time.

*

Yuuri comes home after training to a horde of crisp, glossy paper bags strewn all over their bedroom floor. They look devastatingly expensive. He eyes Viktor suspiciously. “What are these?”

“You’ve been working so hard,” he pouts. “You deserve nice things.”

Yuuri does a quick sweep through the room. “There are twenty of these. _Twenty_.”

“Think of them as presents for the both of us. Something that would make me happy by extension,” then he’s bundling himself into a scarf, clicking on Makkachin’s leash, and stepping out the front door.

Yuuri peeks inside one of the bags. The material is lacy, black, and utterly, utterly sheer.

The fabric does not make it past midnight, snapping into sad, wispy pieces under Viktor’s excitable grip.

*

Much later: Yuuri’s phone pings with a notification sometime in the early morning.

 _[instagram]: jason92 is now following you_.

Viktor’s face crumples into a scowl down at Yuuri’s screen. “This man cannot be serious. I’m about to sic my 3 million followers on him.”

“ _Vitya_.”

**Author's Note:**

> ice adolescence....when....my crops are dying


End file.
